


The Show Goes On

by Ma_Kir



Category: L.A. By Night (Web Series), Vampire: The Masquerade, World of Darkness (Games)
Genre: Family Reunions, Gehenna, Gen, Jyhad, Post- Season 4 Episode 1 L.A. By Night - More Than Human, Reunions, Speculation, Spoilers, The Beckoning, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:35:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24063676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ma_Kir/pseuds/Ma_Kir
Summary: Isaac Abrams has succumbed to the Beckoning, leaving his Barony and Los Angeles behind. This leads him towards something of a ... family reunion. The more things seem to change in the World of the Darkness, the more they remain the same.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	The Show Goes On

Isaac Abrams comes into the room. It is a penthouse apartment, of course. No expense has been spared, this space made and prepared for dignitaries, politicians ...  
  
And celebrities.   
  
It's a little too ostentatious for his tastes. If he were visiting one of the sets he'd paid for, and organized, he would have told the staff to tone it down just a bit. It is one thing to show instead of tell, but Isaac has never particularly had much patience for a brick or a sledgehammer that posed itself as subtlety. But the pull in his vitae, in his blood, was clear. This is the place. The personnel outside, dressed immaculately, but obviously carrying a modest amount of body armour and weapons -- not at all out of place given the region of the world with which they are meeting -- let him through without question into this room.   
  
A man kneels in front of a chair as Isaac comes to a halt. He's dressed in a dusty trench-coat, as though he hasn't realized he isn't in nineteenth century frontier anymore. Granted, his choice of attire is at least period-accurate compared to some of the aesthetics of some of the Spaghetti Westerns even Isaac had been forced to finance albeit with his own slant over the decades -- the 1950s having been the most gauche time -- but could he announce himself as any more a desperado? Any more ... _American_? Isaac chortles a bit in his own mind at that thought, given how his own fashion choice has changed little from the Roaring Twenties, something that Walt Disney and other tycoons might have been more at home with, but there is something simple in that lush austerity that comforts him.   
  
And, right now, Isaac needs all the comfort -- all the foundation of his own personal routine and character -- that he can get. He might lose even that much.   
  
He straights out his suit as the man comes to his feet. If he had a hat, he might have doffed it as well. Isaac watches as he turns. The long dark hair, the goatee ... So it is him. This exactly what this is.   
  
The man smiles. "Ah, the good son's joined us!"  
  
"Isaac!"  
  
Isaac is not prepared for the figure sitting in the chair reacting. He is fast. He's always been this fast, even in the Discipline of their Clan. A small shape wraps his arms around Isaac's torso. "I knew. I just knew you'd come!"  
  
It's been decades. He feels the sheer strength of the other's aura. It is emanating awe and love. He knows what it is, but it's one thing to be aware of a thing, but feeling it is another matter entirely. He finds himself kneeling down as well, attempting to bow his head. "Sire ..."  
  
"No, no it's all right." Isaac feels a hand stroke his hair. "You don't need to do that tonight. It's a special occasion, Isaac. Come on. Look at me."  
  
Isaac obeys. Just like that. He hasn't obeyed anyone, or anything, in years. But he knows better. His heart's blood wells up in his chest as he looks at the boy. He is beautiful. He might as well be Tadzio so obsessed over by Aschenbach in Thomas Mann's _Death in Venice_. Isaac should know. He helped make the 1971 film adaptation happen. A blond, golden-haired child of thirteen years with clear, piercing eyes. Those eyes could light up with enthusiasm, just as quickly as it could rage. Isaac remembers all of those moments well.   
  
Isaac decides to return the hug before Christopher Houghton lets go of him, though he takes his hands. The other man watches all this with bemusement.   
  
"Glad you could join us, Abrams." He tells him, smacking him on the shoulder. If it weren't for the fact that Christopher was still holding his hands, Isaac might have flinched or adjusted his suit again. "Guess I better go, and leave you with Chris."  
  
Isaac looks back and forth between the boy and the man, then back to Christopher. "... Chris?"  
  
"Yes." Christopher lets go of one of Isaac's hands, and despite himself he feels the loss of it. He should know so much better. "I've decided you may all call me Chris. For tonight anyway." He nods to the other man. "You may go, Tigger. You know your business."   
  
"Yes, Chris." Isaac notices the boy doesn't stop the man from bowing again. "See you later. Great to see you again, Abrams."  
  
"Murietta." Isaac acknowledges. If it weren't for the sheer Presence of the potent elder in front of him, he would have shied away from the other man, knowing what he is.   
  
Joaquin Murietta goes so far as to actually make a fanciful bow, with his hat, before putting it on his head as he turns and leaves the room.   
  
"Don't worry, Isaac." Christopher says. "Joaquin will be back soon enough. Just has to do a few things for me first. You know how it is. Being busy, and all that. Please. Take a seat." Isaac can't help but hear his own words, in that light childish tone, and it reminds him that they have never left his mind. Ever. It's just been a while since he has been on the other side of them. "We really need to catch up."  
  
"Of course, Chris." Isaac says, looking around and pulling up a chair. "It is my pleasure."  
  
Christopher giggles. "So, you've been taking care of my city pretty well in my absence."  
  
"I ... have tried, Chris." Isaac says, deciding that honesty is the best way to approach this. He had been prepared for something like this, when the blood called him here, to see Christopher Houghton again. But again, it's one thing to think you know, and a whole other to experience it.   
  
"You've done good." The child-like vampire says, his tone slightly changing. Isaac decides to nod, not wanting to contradict the other. "I really like the way you're running Hollywood too. I knew you'd add to it, if I just left you alone for a while."  
  
"Thank you, Chris." Isaac says, his deference returning to him as an instinct, a sense of self-preservation, and a genuine emotion ... or as much of one in the face of the elder's power.   
  
"It's a shame about McNeil though."  
  
Isaac keeps his face genial, and amused but his vitae almost freezes in his long-dead veins. He clears his throat, a habit he thought he'd gotten rid of from his mortal life. "I'm sorry, Chris. I really wanted him to stay. We ... I did my best."  
  
"I know you did." Christopher pats his hand. "I know how much it must have hurt when he left. MacNeil was ... he is special. I knew he'd make our city into something great. That Ventrue won't hold Lost Angels for long. To be honest, Juan wouldn't have held it for much less if I hadn't been so patient."  
  
Juan. Sebastian Juan Dominguez. Or Don Sebastian. The last Prince of Los Angeles, of the Camarilla before MacNeil's defacto Barony, and then that upstart LaCroix. Isaac has not forgotten Don Sebastian. Or what happened to him.   
  
"Oh, don't get me wrong, Isaac. Juan was a great administrator. The best organizer. He kept order. But, well. You know what happened. You were there, in Hollywood then. It got so dull. So ... boring. But MacNeil had vision. Just like me. He wasn't understood either. I think he knew how frustrating it was. Not to be understood, I mean. He just wanted to change things. He just wanted to be ... free."  
  
There is an odd lilt to the elder's voice. For a few moments, Christopher is quiet. He's staring off somewhere. Isaac realizes he is looking at a door in the penthouse room. Now that he can think, he hears voices talking behind it. Murmuring. It's the first time in ages that he realizes that Christopher is genuinely experiencing discomfort. It humanizes him, but also ... terrifies Isaac.   
  
Christopher looks back to him, gripping his hand a little more firmly. "They'll be out soon." He tells him, as though telling him his parents will be joining them. Or ... their parents. "I'm glad you could make it, Isaac. I ... I was so afraid." He shakes his head, smiling. "No, silly. Not that you weren't all right. I _knew_ you would be all right. That's why I chose you. Do you remember?"  
  
Isaac bows his head again. "I do."  
  
"Juan was a good organizer. He ran his ranch just the same. You are too, but ruling that whole Domain would've been wasted on you. Politics is wasted on you, and I knew then -- that night -- you had no patience for it. Juan told me all about you. Even he was impressed. I think he might've thought I was going to replace him, with you. But that was never what you were for, Isaac. No. You could see what I was making. You understood it. Juan claimed to. He said he loved me." Christopher giggles again. "I mean, everybody loves me. But you saw we were making art, not just moving pictures but from all those lives, all the kine and Kindred alike. I mean, it's almost like Carthage, isn't it? Even Michael and his Dream in Constantinople, not Istanbul. Did you finance that song too?"  
  
Isaac can't help but smirk a bit. "I ... might have something to do with it."  
  
"I didn't say that you could branch out into music." There is a long, deadly pause between them. Isaac braces, before Christopher smiles. "Just kidding. I'm glad you have that initiative, Isaac. You kept that drive, that will over yourself and what you love. It's why I chose you. It's why I made you, and left you in charge of Hollywood, and not Juan. Or the others. And you know what else?" He leans up and puts his lips to Isaac's ear. "Juan was also greedy, you know how to respect me, and my wishes."   
  
Isaac manages to somehow feel both a chill and ... pride at the praise at the same time. "Of course, Chris. You gave me my start. And I could see where you were going with MacNeil and the Anarchs."  
  
"You always did have a soft spot for them."  
  
"I do." Isaac admits, realizing there is no point in denying it.   
  
"Then why did you let MacNeil leave?"  
  
"I ..." Isaac swallows. He remembers these mood whiplashes. He knows he didn't even get the worst of them. Don Sebastian often did, as Prince of Los Angeles and Christopher's primary childe. It had probably meant his Final Death. "I did the best I could with Jeremy. I gave him the backing he needed. We even made the Baronies together when the others couldn't ... handle their own freedom. I did the best ..."  
  
"... without me?" Christopher lets go of Isaac's other hand, and his face is cold. Serious. Isaac feels as though he's been slapped. "That was the reason I chose you. To continue my wishes."  
  
"I ..." Isaac tries. "I loved MacNeil. We all did. And even when he left, I upheld the dream of him. As much as we can."  
  
"And you think your pretty Nelli Griffith will make a better replacement for you, Isaac? And the Brujah girl?"   
  
"Nelli is an excellent member of our Clan. And Annabel ..." He sighs. "She's young."  
  
"You are all young."  
  
"Yes. Of course, Chris." Isaac tries again. "But she has the fire. I only heard that passion once. We both did."  
  
"Hm." Christopher's brow furrows. "Maybe, when this is all over, I might come back. For a visit. I still can't believe she's better than MacNeil. I also can't believe he left."  
  
The disappointment in the elder's voice is clear. It actually ... hurts Isaac to hear. That Christopher's hero left. It had been years, but what are years to someone like him? And to think that he might believe he failed him, in keeping MacNeil ... "Sire, I ..."  
  
_"No!"_ His sire's roar is like thunderclap, nearly knocking him over, making his mind quail from its sheer power. "It's _Chris_! Chris, you _fool_. How dare you disobey --"  
  
"That is enough, Christopher."   
  
The door to the other room opens. A man steps out. It is the first time that Isaac has ever seen his sire grow ... pale. Isaac's hand begins to hurt. He realizes, belatedly, that Christopher is gripping it.  
  
The other man ... It is hard for Isaac to describe him. He is tall, perhaps more in Presence than in his actual height. He is dressed in the finest suit, more expensive than even Isaac's own. But it is the dignity of his face, and the severity in it that strikes him. The aura emanating from the older man, the _much_ older gentleman, is crushing. Whereas Christopher's presence is one of beauty and danger, this man's is one of authority and austere perfectionism. The perfect.   
  
"Are you going to embarrass me again, Christopher?" The older man says.   
  
Christopher shrinks back into his chair. "N-no, Sir."  
  
The man keeps his eyes on Christopher for a long time, for what seems to be a terrifying eternity, before he nods. "Good. He has been Beckoned. He will come with me. We have much to discuss."  
  
There is fear in Christopher's eyes. Somehow, Isaac feels the boy clutching his hand tighter. "Please, Sire."  
  
"Christopher Houghton." The older man says, sternly, coldly. "Do not make me repeat myself."  
  
The boy abruptly releases Isaac's hand ... and his attention. He looks up at Isaac, with abject terror. "Isaac ..." He whispers, before lowering his face.   
  
"Come along." The older vampire tells Isaac, as Isaac's mind catches up with everything that has transpired.

Isaac gets up and follows the other. Briefly, he thinks about his Barony. About Nelli. And Annabel. Even Victor and the others. He wonders where Christopher sent Joaquín Murietta before the door shuts, quietly, behind them and it is only him and the maker of his sire.   
  
"Sir Matthew Lubbock." He remembers Christopher telling him about his creator. He bears down on his fear, and holds out his hand. "I'm --"  
  
"Isaac Abrams. Quite." Sir Matthew doesn't hold out his hand. The sheer perfection of his chiseled beauty, if that is what it is, makes Isaac freeze into place. He forces himself, prays to whatever is out there or ... or here, that he doesn't fixate. Not now. "You are adequate enough."  
  
Isaac somehow feels as though it is safe to speak. "Pardon, Sir?"  
  
Sir Matthew shakes his head. "That pathetic childe. He was a failure, you know. He was a terrible painter. At first, I thought he was useless as an artist. But over time ... I see he was simply better with landscapes, and its subjects. As are you." He inclines his head, scrutinizing Isaac, his eyes glowing like an eternal critic analyzing the soul of a work of art for all time. There is mild disapproval there. Sir Matthew smooths out one of Isaac's lapels. He nods. "Yes. You will do." He turns away, to the room beyond. " _She_ will see you now. Do not embarrass our Clan."   
  
Abrams' long desiccated stomach sinks in anxiety and ... anticipation as the far older vampire's words sink in. No. It couldn't be. There are others. Others of lower Generation, closer to Caine, who would be more important. He feels the blood telling, however. His own vitae is dragging him forward. He nods to Sir Matthew, and somehow completely forgets about him.  
  
It is everything Isaac has feared, and more, as he enters the room where she sits. All of the affection he's felt for Nelli, his fondness for Velvet, his loyalty and adoration and terror for his own sire, even his agonizing love for his childe Ash pales in comparison to the power of the figure that overrides him, whose musical voice tells him that she has been waiting, that the entertainment is beginning, the stage is set, the film reel wheeling. These are his impressions, for while Christopher's aura is beauty, and Sir Matthew's is cold authority, hers is ... it's sheer power. It's power itself. It is the light before camera and action.   
  
It is the beginning of the end. And the worst, most terrifying thing of all, is now he understands why Christopher is so cowed, why Sir Matthew is so deferential, why the other Kindred he's passed, ancient and varied are so quiet. She is the end. And Isaac Abrams knows that his work, his true work, being subsumed by this utter fixation of the ultimate, has only begun ... and he has no problem with that. 


End file.
